LA Cause & Effect
by jennii.b
Summary: Adding a new member of any squad ALWAYS changes the dymnamic. It's hard to learn to work an unfamiliar detective into existing rhthyms. Just as hard to break into an established routine and pecking order. Tanner Moyer must dance a fine line to fit in... (everyone will make appearances)
1. 1 BULLSHIT METER

_Confession: I try soooo hard to stay cannon when I impose my own imagination on someone else's work. Obviously their stuff made it into print/tv/silverscreen because they're good, right?_

_But here I changed a character's name. Julio Sanchez is Michael Sanchez in my story. It'll become clear why much, much later._

_I beg forgiveness of those who care enough to be offended…_

**Chapter 1:**

**Bullshit Meter**

Brenda's guys rolled their eyes.

"This..." the woman continued, "is Detective Tanner Moyer. I'm sure ya'll are all gonna make her feel real welcome."

There were mumbles. Tanner had a BS meter that usually proved pretty accurate. She wasn't picking up 'we hate you because you're a girl' vibes from this group. Maybe it was an age thing - - several of the squad were qualified silver foxes. Maybe it was an experience thing. They may or may not have an appreciation of what/who she was coming from. Her guess was that they just didn't like new people.

The low mutterings ceased. The silence grew, then stretched thin.

Brenda's eyebrows rose. Several of her intended victims simply faced her down in return.

That, if nothing else, merited half a smile.

"Charmed," Tanner purred, meeting Brenda's stare.

"Just let 'em get to know you," the assistant chief claimed.

The oriental guy in the back snorted. The attractive black woman in the middle of the room pursed her lips and looked unconvinced.

Yup. Warm and fuzzy.

"Where are you coming from?" Wolf asked.

Tanner shrugged. "Vice. Orange Beach." _Mixed responses to that,_ she thought.

"See-that explains the Prada," Brenda told them. Tanner laughed.

Later, over the questionable nutrition of Twinkies and M&Ms, Brenda stopped Tanner's perusal of a series of photographs. Something bothered the younger woman about them, but she hadn't been able to put her finger on it. So she kept at it, first looking long and slow, then flipping quickly, finally laying them out over the surface of her desk. She was driving several others - - all of whom had seen the photos - - insane. Brenda thought it prudent to intervene before one of the boys took them away.

"You grew up here?" she asked.

Tanner looked up. "Here?" She sounded surprised.

"She don't mean in this office," Provenza clarified with disgust.

Tanner rolled her eyes. She spoke to Brenda. "I have some family here. I moved around a lot when I was a kid. My gramma's getting older, though. Needs somebody to help her - - take her to the store, to church, you know."

"You moved in with your grandmother?" Flynn asked.

"I relocated. My apartment's downtown. Grand'Mere lives up here. What else was I supposed to do? Put her in a home?"

"Why not move her in with you? Then you could have stayed at Vice. No need to come down here at all."

Tanner whirled toward him. "My gramma's lived in the same neighborhood, same house, since my grampa came home from the war. Why would I try to move her? And why the hell would I want to expose her to what I did at Vice?"

Mike Tao shrugged. "I just thought you might feel more comfortable on familiar ground. Rather than start all over in investigation."

Tanner snorted.

Brenda hustled over to intervene again.

"Tell me what's wrong with these pictures," Tanner challenged. A couple people stood to look.

"What?"

"You take crime scene photos as you come to them. Look at the shots, then look at the shadow, then look at the time stamp. Somebody's fucking with something."

"In our lab?"

"That or in your procedures. Unless special investigations doesn't number markers sequentially."


	2. 2 COMING TO TERMS

**Chapter 2:**

**Coming to Terms**

Sanchez walked into the club with two of his buddies looking for a good time. They'd each driven separately so that if they caught any action it wouldn't leave anybody out in the cold.

Manuel and Janos picked up women like they were for sale at the supermarket.

The room was dark, smoky, with the tang of bodies moving to the loud, pulsing rhythms and the scent of a thousand perfumes and the crispness of the air conditioners filtering constantly. You could almost hear the ice crackle in glasses and the sound of skin brushing. The people that came here came here to dance, to see and be seen. It was a mix of ages, almost entirely Spanish-speaking, who were comfortable with the modern music and who had grown up with the motions of the traditional dances. It was not a place you'd bring your mother, but it was where you showed off the moves she'd taught you.

Sanchez got his drink, picked his spot, and prepared to spend the evening with his back against the wall-holding the bar in place. He could move. With the right woman he'd hit the dance floor. He brought dates here often enough, had picked up girls here a time or two, and usually found partners for the floor. He loved to watch, though. His eyes were drawn to the raised "stage" at the end of the room. In theory a band should have been playing there. He'd never known the club to book one, though. The DJ-a quiet, unassuming DJ by the industry's standards-simply kept the floor filled and spun his records constantly. So the stage had morphed into a showcase for those brave enough to dance for the crowd's approval.

The man at the bar did a double-take as he recognized one of the women there. He shook his head. She was in a cluster of women, dancing in a way that made a man think of poles and dollar bills.

Sanchez took a long pull of his drink and watched her lean back against one of her girlfriends, shimmying down while her hands brushed up her body, collecting all that hair only to let it fall like rain as her arms extended gracefully over her head.

"Who you staring at so hard, brother?" Antonio asked, draining his own drink before wiping down the counter. The eldest in their family never drank at his end of the bar. Didn't like his back to the room, too stubborn to change his ways. But Antonio like working the end where the action was, so they both dealt.

"Somebody I kind of know-at least I think it's her." He slipped into Spanish easily, never recognizing that he was speaking it. He'd learned at an early age to let his brain process. It was a gift, his little brother assured him, to be able to instantly understand and respond in whichever language was spoken to him.

"Which one?"

Sanchez motioned with his bottle. "Gringo on the stage-with the dark hair."

Manuel and Janos looked for and found her. There were other white women in the bar, even up on the stage. There were lots of dark haired women in the place.

"Nice..." Janos drawled. "You can introduce me."

Sanchez shook his head. "Trust me. No. I'd be more likely to introduce you to a complete stranger."

"How do you know her?"

"If she is who I think she is, she used to be vice. Now she wants to be a homicide detective. With no experience whatsoever."

"And you don't approve."

Sanchez shook his head. "She's in the wrong part of town. All her work has been with the slope community. Opium. Art before that."

Manuel shrugged. "She's on our side now."

Sanchez's eyes were cold. "She needs to get out before she gets hurt-before she gets in over her head."

Janos looked at his friend. The man rarely went judgmental. Which meant one of two extremes. He decided to test the waters when she and three other women took advantage in a shift in music to come laughing toward the bar. She leaned over to shout her order to the bartender, then settled back against a stool, listening to one of the women chatter. Exertion had brought out a sheen that glimmered atop her glittery makeup and light tan. The low-riding jeans and white cotton halter she wore was less risqué than the outfits of many of the women in the club. Still, the jeans were tight enough to cause a second look and the halter left enough bared to let you know you wanted this woman under you. A cuff bracelet gleamed gold on her bicep, long dangly earrings accentuated a graceful neck.

Janos leaned over the corner of the bar and shouted to get her attention.

"If I yell help loud enough would the LAPD be honor bound to save me?"

"What about the CPR?" Manuel added.

Just as Sanchez opened his mouth to remind his friend to speak English the beauty turned around and grinned.

She was already responding, albeit in English, with "Mouth-to-mouth depends on how good looking you are," when her eyes scanned far enough and she recognized him.

Something changed in her face. A wariness and challenge at once flashed over her eyes, into her jawline. Still, she pivoted to turn her attention to Janos, who had rounded the bar to speak to her.

"I'm surprised your friend didn't warn you off," she told him in Spanish. Her accent was off the tiniest bit. Other than that, it was perfect. And she didn't have to stumble over the words.

"You speak Spanish," Sanchez said, brooding. He leaned forward to be heard over the noise.

She nodded once, playing her lips together. "I understand it when it's spoken ten feet from me as well," she told him. It was a clear reminder of the things he'd said earlier in the week. He hadn't thought she'd understood. Now he remembered his words and was ashamed.

"I apologize for that."

"Because you would have waited until I was out of the room to talk about me if you'd known?"

"I perhaps was hasty in my assumptions."

"You were," she told him coldly, turning.

Janos lifted his brows and looked at Sanchez. Who shrugged.

One of Moyer's pals had engaged Manuel in conversation and led him to the floor. Moyer and another had their heads close together. Janos let a stranger pull him away and Sanchez leaned back into his corner again.

For half an hour Moyer tried to pretend she was still having a good time. She tried to forget the hurt she'd buried at being the newbie again and having to prove herself all over again. At being the outsider. She kept herself from watching the man in the corner.

Finally she gave up. Pinning Meliana down as the music shifted to slow again and they congregated on the steps to the stage she announced that she was going home.

Sanchez watched the other girl shake her head. He could read her facial expression. She didn't like what Moyer had just told her.

When the expressive hand swept the direction of the bar and she rolled her eyes he filled in the blanks.

Moyer was leaving and whether she told her friend he was the reason or she'd guessed it, her friend knew he was the reason.

Moyer just laughed, shook her head, and buzzed the girl's cheek. She didn't even look his direction as she began wending her way through the bodies.

So he shifted uncomfortably and figured her owed her a real apology.

Moyer found her progress impeded by a tug on her arm.

She stopped short, smiling politely in case it was someone she wanted touching her. If it wasn't she was a big girl and could kill 'em, so it didn't hurt to start out nice.

It was Sanchez.

"What?" she whined.

"I mean it for everything. And not just because you're here and not just because you speak Spanish. You are far less incompetent than any of us thought you'd be."

Her eyebrows winged toward her hairline. "That's an apology?!"

The drums had started again. Loud and steady. "What?" he shouted.

She leaned closer to his ear and repeated herself. "That's supposed to be an apology?"

Ducking his head to look at her he spoke close to her ear. "NO. It's a rationalization. Don't leave because of me. We have to work together. We can play in the same space."

She sighed. "I just want to go home."

She met his eyes and he thought that she looked dejected. Defeated.

He shook his head again. "Not yet," he told her firmly, softly. "Let me buy you a drink. A welcome to the team. Suck it up and let bygones be bygones."

It was hard to ignore him. His hand was still on her arm and he was already gesturing for two drinks with the other. Not that she couldn't have taken him out.

The bartender served her the light beer she'd been drinking all night long. Served him the imported Mexican beer-dark and tangy-that he preferred. Moyer leaned forward, delicately holding her hair from her face, and sniffed it.

"Go ahead," Sanchez told her. "Try it."

"I've had Spanish beer," she told him. "Like Spain Spanish. I've never had this."

"It's a cottage industry. They have two plants. Tijuana and Mexico City. This is one of the few places you can get it." He slid the bottle to her. And enjoyed the concentration on her face as she took the tentative sip. It was strong. Almost musky. And completely different than other beers. They made small talk while each drank their own. One of Moyer's friends came tipping back up, bouncing and giggling. Sanchez registered somewhere that both women were speaking Spanish.

"Have you ever tried this?" Moyer asked Pauline, sliding his beer away from his hand. Sanchez bit back a smile as the other girl wrinkled her pretty pert little nose.

"You know I don't like cerveza!" she told Moyer.

"Try this, though," Moyer told her, palming the sweating glass. "It's different."

Pauline took the bottle and sipped it, shrugging. She spoke in English. "I'll stick with tequila. That's not too bad, but it's still beer."

Moyer took and honest to God swig, let it rest on her tongue, then took another. She shook her head. "I like it," she told the e other girl.

Sanchez leaned forward in his seat, gestured again for the bartender to bring another.

As he drank it he found himself caught up in a conversation on the other side of Moyer and spent a few minutes arguing over her shoulder with another regular about futball. He only returned his attention to the woman when she covered a tiny yawn and made to stand up.

"Whoa," he told her. "You can't leave yet."

"Why not?" she laughed. The additional alcohol in her system had mellowed her back out.

"You owe me."

"How do you figure I owe you?" she asked. Her hand hit her hip and she cocked her head at him. "You apologized, I drank your grovel beer. We're good."

"You drank my drink, too," he told her, indicating the near-empty bottle with his new one. He drained it quickly, then stood. "Come on, you can sweat out some of the alcohol and I won't have to arrest you for public intoxication."

She rolled her eyes. "What?"

He held out her hand. "Come dance with me."

She looked suspicious. "You haven't been out there all night," she told him.

He took her hand, leaned closer. "I didn't know you cared enough to notice."

She rolled her eyes again, but let him drag her out. She danced with any and all who asked her. She loved it. All of it. Anywhere, any time.

And, surprisingly, Sanchez had moves. He wasn't a flashy dancer. He was the pull you in and make you melt kind.

And it worked. On both of them.

So that before either realized it they'd been out there for several songs in a row and both his friends and her friends had noticed. And they were both feeling...melty. As the DJ put on something sinuous again Sanchez pulled her close. It seemed normal-natural-to skim down the side of her face, to lean into her neck to inhale her perfume and the scent that was even more deeply hers. And Moyer pretended that the only reason she let her hands trail over him-all over him-was because she was more than a little drunk and quite a bit unsteady. She let the pretense go so far as to believe that the drink was what was making her feel fluttery and unsteady.

But when the song ended and they stood there, breathing hard and very aware of the other, each realized that it had gone too far to pretend and that it was time to back off and back away.

Moyer didn't meet his eyes as she told him she really had to be going.

Sanchez swallowed. "Do you want me to walk you to your car?" he asked.

"I'll, um, I'll take a cab, I think," she told him, ducking her head to tuck hair behind her ear.

He seconded the motion, letting his fingers play on the big gold slide of her earring. "Okay. Let me get one for you."

He didn't take her hand, just pressed his palm to the small of her back. And imagined the taste of her skin there, and higher up, underneath that fall of hair. That's when he realized that this was going to be bad.

Outside the air had cooled. Subconsciously both took deep breaths, letting sanity and fresh oxygen crowd out their thoughts and emotions. He hailed her a cab, held the door for her as she slid inside.

"Be careful," he told her as he ducked down to slam the door.

She smiled. "Don't play too late. It's a school night."

He was grinning when he slapped the roof to let the cabbie go on. Then he went back inside to drink enough to be able to sleep.


	3. 3 LOVE THIS DIVISION

**Chapter 3:**

**I Love This Division**

Two days passed during which Sanchez found himself opening the doors and letting the newbie in. Hell, it wasn't her fault she hadn't been in on the beginnings of the team. None of them had been that close in the beginning. Now they were damn near to family. And in family there's always room for one more.

"Where'd you learn Spanish?" he asked, apropos of nothing whatsoever, on Saturday while the group was gathered eating lunch. They'd been apart for less than two hours since arriving at work on Friday morning and everybody was feeling punchy.

"Spain," she told him around her club sandwich. "My parents are into the schmoozing the locals thing. According to local customs. So we all learned party manners everywhere my family was sent."

"Your mom is a foreign ambassador, right?" Brenda asked.

Tanner Moyer nodded. "They're in Paris now. By far my mom's favorite. My little sisters are having the time of their lives. Every high schooler dreams of falling in love in Paris."

"How many of you are there?"

"Six. My mom gets bored, she has another baby. All girls. My dad jokes that there's one of us for each new country."

"And you are?"

"Duty station number two. Daughter of the American ambassador to the People's Republic of China in Beijing." She bowed over her hands and closed her eyes, much like a benevolent master.

Brenda snapped her fingers. "That's it!" she exclaimed, standing. "That's how they do it! Think about it! Who in the world is going to search the luggage of someone in the entourage of a visiting dignitary? Nobody wants to risk offending anybody at any level." She paced, then started bouncing her finger. "Someone get me a list of the people travelling with the Czech ambassador. I want pictures of the entire group as they get off the place, get the passport photos of all those people and lets check them off one by one. Somewhere in there is a murderer and I want to find him. And when I do..." She leaned over the table. "...I want to find out that he or she is only marauding as a diplomat. I want to be able to punish this person. Do ya'll understand me?"

"Here's the thing," Provenza said quietly hours later. "We know who it is. And we know that they won't be punished, even if we bring them in. But we can still bring them in, right? And nobody knows that we know who they really are, so there's always the chance that we've identified them from photograph and official identification only, right?"

"That actually makes sense," Fox told him.

"Thank you."

"I don't think I want to hear what you're getting at," Brenda told the man.

He shrugged expansively. "I'm just saying, as a dangerous criminal known to be responsible for the brutal deaths of two women, plus the shooting of at least two others, it goes without saying that we'd go in prepared to..._defend_... ourselves. Just in case he should turn a gun on one of us. None of whom are immune to gunshot wounds."

"He's got a point, chief."

Brenda nodded. "I understand your frustrations. But the justice system was laid out for a reason and that justice system says that we can detain the man for questioning, even find him guilty, but we have to get a confession or concrete evidence against him before the DA will touch this case."

"That said," the chief said, "I want all of you in jackets. This guy doesn't touch you. If you catch my drift. Plant something on him if you have to shoot him, but don't let him even look at you cross-eyed."

Moyer grinned. "I love this division," she pronounced.

Three days later she was in the more familiar pose of a takedown position. Sanchez was going in high and was just behind her in the hallway.

"You know," he said softly as they waited for the 'go'. "The club has more formal sets on Sunday nights."

She shot a look over her shoulder. "Huana Bay? They're closed on Sundays for church."

"It's private," he explained. "But you'd be welcome there, if you want to come."

She pursed her lips, considering. "How formal?"

"Not formal, formal. Most people are still in their church clothes. We go to Mass, then eat, then they dance. It's not like you see on TV. But it's the families, the real dance. Not the nightclub."

"I'd love to see it. I don't think I should, though."

"You'll be fine. You won't be the only white person to ever go or anything."

She laughed, then looked up at him. "That's not what worried me. I don't think I'd be able to keep up. And I haven't been back long enough to feel comfortable just walking in the back door one afternoon."

"Well then come with me. I'll introduce you around. Show you the ropes. It'll be fun. You can do it. I promise."

She nodded before her face lost the pensive look, but he knew he had her.

"Consider it a learning experience," he told her. It was his ace in the hole.

She rolled her eyes. Which he was beginning to think was cute. He was also beginning to question his sanity. The next thirty seconds, spent waiting in silence for the order to move, were the longest in his life.

She went. Of course she went. She was powerless not to. Which was strange, because most of her life had been an exercise in self-control. But it was like the seed was planted and had nothing to do but grow until avoiding it became obvious denial. Which didn't work for her. She had no idea that Michael Sanchez had already spoken for her.

He called Gregorio "Huana" Juarez late Friday afternoon-after they'd all done reams of paperwork explaining why the perp had seven bullets in him. Each one a kill shot, according to the medical examiner. It was a point of pride for the seven members of the police force who had simultaneously seen what they thought was the perp going for a gun. Who was to say he hadn't been? But there wouldn't be a major IA snoop since the ballistics testing would reveal that each bullet came from a different gun. The guy was known to be armed and dangerous. What were they supposed to do when he reached behind his back?

So, feeling good about catching the bad guy, feeling good that he wouldn't be back out on the streets, feeling good that nobody's careers were going down the tubes for it, Sanchez felt lucky. And feeling lucky he placed a phone call to his dad's friend.

"Huana, my man, how are you today?"

"Knee deep in the paperwork and books this afternoon. Looking forward to seeing the numbers tonight. I need them."

"Trouble?" Sanchez asked. He didn't know much about the operations of the club. He just knew that it had been a staple of his life growing up.

"I want more profit. I'm greedy." Sanchez could hear the other man's grin. He could practically feel it. "Want to come buy some lovely chica expensive drinks tonight?"

Sanchez chuckled. "I'm thinking about bringing one to Nanita's Sunday."

"Your friends are always welcome," Huana told him. He wracked his brain to remember if the younger man had a steady girlfriend or not. He couldn't remember any recent gossip, but maybe they'd been seeing each other long enough that it wasn't noteworthy anymore. "I haven't seen you often enough," he chided his friend's older boy.

Sanchez laughed. "I've been working."

"Even on Sunday?" Huana scoffed.

"It's the way of it. I barely make time for Mass some weeks."

"Make time this week. I'm telling Anita that you're coming."

"I will. Even if I'm late, I'll be there."

"Say 'hello' to your father for me," Huana ordered.

"Tell him yourself. You'll probably see him before I will," Sanchez reminded him.

"Take care, _Niño_."

"I will, _old man_."

It was all over the neighborhood before Sanchez had showered and gotten a cold beer from his fridge. Huana told his wife that Michael Sanchez had called and was coming with company on Sunday afternoon.

"Oh? And who is this girl?" she asked.

Huana shrugged. "Anita, I'm telling you what I know. Call Mollie. She always knows what her boys are doing."

"I've not heard her ask about some new girl. You know she would ask if we'd met her. He always brings dates to the club. You haven't seen her?"

"It's been a while since he was in. Until last week I hadn't seen Michael at all for maybe a month."

"Hmph."

"The man's an adult, sweetness. He has his own life; he isn't tied to the neighborhood."

Anita put her hands on her hips and stared him down. The man in question wasn't tied to the neighborhood. But he loved it. He'd said so often enough. And there were enough times when he came home just to sit on the porch and see and be seen that they both knew the statement was ridiculous.

"I don't know anything about this hussy," Anita declared, turning and wiping her hands on the towel. Her husband sighed as he watched her go. She would start on the phone and he wouldn't get his supper before he went to the club.

The hussy ran into Sanchez on Saturday morning in the LAPD gym.

"Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow afternoon?" he offered.

Confusion clouded her eyes and she frowned.

"Or do you want to meet somewhere?"

"I'm not sure this is a good ide-"

Sanchez held up one hand. "Anybody who dances the way you do loves it. This is simply a widening of experiences."

Easy for him to say.

"So..."

Moyer sighed. "What time?"

Sanchez smiled. "We usually go over after church. Say 1:00 or so. Eat two o'clock, two-thirty-"

"Should I bring something?"

He looked blank.

"For lunch. Should I plan on going to the early service so I can make something for the meal-"

"Dude, I don't know," Sanchez shrugged expansively. "The women usually take care of all that."

Moyer gestured down at herself in frustration. "Woman," she reminded him in a scathing tone. She rolled her eyes. "Your mother or sisters or aunts or anyone else you know usually go to this thing?"

She watched his face relax as he nodded enthusiastically. "All the time."

"What do they do before the meal?"

He shrugged. "My mom usually helps Nanita and her daughters in the kitchen. My little sister-I don't know. It seems like sometimes she maybe sets the table or plays with the little kids or teases the old men. Whatever."

She was giving him up as hopeless. "Fine. Thank you."

"So?"

"So...I think maybe flowers or wine. Maybe I'll bake. I don't know. I think you're clueless."  
At this he arched a brow. "I'll pick you up. Have you ever been to the Mass? Do you want to go with us, meet people there first?"

She rolled her eyes. "My family's been Catholic as long as yours has. I'm fine, thanks." She pulled a notepad out of her gym bag and jotted down a number. "Call me when you get out of church and I'll let you know where I am."

He smiled.


	4. 4 COMPLETELY LOST

**Chapter 4:**

**Competely Lost**

She made cinnamon rose water cookies. They were light and fluffy and would keep well in the car. And, after church, she strolled down to the open market to see if she could find flowers for her hostess. He met her there, admiring the sight of her long legs in the black pencil skirt that covered her knees. He approved of the way her heels lifted her calves and appreciated the view as she bent over to pick out a bundle of flowers. Her hair was up, sophisticated and easy at once. Her smile was open when she turned away from the counter at the sound of his car idling up to the curb. And, when he went up to her, when he touched her arm, he could smell sunshine and clouds and gold metal bands. She approved completely when he reached for his own wallet to pay for the red gerbera daisies and blue bachelor's buttons and sprigs of rosemary the florist arranged in paper for her.

"These are pretty," he told her, sniffing.

She smiled up at him. His mother would approve of her makeup, although where that thought came from he wasn't sure. He remembered arguments when his little sister had been spreading her wings about what was appropriate for fun, what was for God, what was for nightclubs and what was reserved only for those who wanted to look as though they worked evenings.

"Nanita, this is my friend. I've told her nothing about you," he joked as he bent to kiss a worn brown face. He turned to his partner. "Tanner Moyer, Anita Juarez. The secret to 'Huana' Juarez's success and happiness."

"I'm delighted to meet you," she told the young woman. She was lying. She'd already decided that the girl was some trouble maker. Michael had said nothing to his mother, God bless her, and hadn't answered her calls or his father's since Anita had begun her fact-finding mission. Now in he walked with a tall, thin white woman who was carrying a plate of something and looking uncertain and hopeful at once.

"You can call her Nanita," Sanchez told Moyer. "Nanita, Moyer baked. And she made me bring flowers. Now I'm lost." He blushed but grinned with it.

"I'll just take these, Niño. They're beautiful. You did a good job." She inhaled the scent of the herbed florals. "Thank you." She slipped the covered plate from the woman's hands and smiled at Michael as if he'd hung the moon.

"Moyer's fault. She picked them out. I'm clueless." He winked at Moyer. Who rolled her eyes.

"Your momma's in front," Anita told him, gesturing with her chin. "Your father's helping my husband hold down the table."

Sanchez grinned.

Round after round of introduction was made. Moyer felt more and more uncomfortable. The third Juarez boy snapped his fingers when he came in. "I knew you couldn't stay away! I knew it!" He fell to his knees. "I'm only just turned twenty-one," he told her in Spanish. "But I'll give up my philandering ways if you'll marry me-"

"Get out of here, runt," Sanchez grinned, tipping the younger man over with his foot.

"Remind me," Moyer told him.

"Now I'm crushed. You don't even remember me-and we had it all, the moonlight, the romantic music, the-"

"Bartender. South end of the room," Sanchez interrupted. Moyer laughed, her memory jogged. She also blushed. She'd always come here to dance. Freely.

"Party's here!" a young man announced, coming into the room.

"Oh, God," Sanchez sighed under his breath. An identical exhalation came from the older Michael Sanchez.

"Hell-o. What have we here?" Rafael asked, ducking his head to plant a kiss on his father's cheek. He held his hand out to Moyer as he straightened. He switched to English. "I'm pleased to meet you, senorita."

His dad spoke for the newcomer. "Tanner Moyer. She speaks Spanish beautifully. And she's your brother's. Now go away."

Moyer smiled uncomfortably as Sanchez stammered, "Well, not like that, she's just-"

He was saved by his mother, a beautifully curvy fifty-year-old with skin like toasted almonds and eyes so dark they were almost black. No grey threaded her hair, but the hands she held out were worn from work and much loving. "My boys, my boys." Both leaned in to press adoring kisses to her cheeks. Moyer misted at the expression both men wore. She wondered if either realized how soft their sharp, bright smiles had become.

"Oh, brother," Mr. Sanchez muttered.

"Now, Michael. Let me see this young lady." She held out both hands to Moyer. Moyer smiled and took the hands in both of hers.

"She speaks Spanish," Mr. Sanchez warned.

Mrs. Sanchez shot him a quashing look. "Of course she does. Would my son bring someone here who didn't without letting us know so that we could put on our party manners? No. Now you just mind your tequila and let me meet our guest." She lifted her eyes to the heavens. "Men. Why we need them is beyond me. If they weren't so solid and strong and good to look at I'd just set them all out on the curb. Now, are you comfortable with Spanish?"

_Si, Senora Sanchez._

_ "_Good. Now, you call me Mollie and my husband is Michael as well. Mr. Michael or plain Michael as your Michael is usually little Michael. Come with me and you can tell me how you met while we put out the dinner things."

And she was whisked away, just like that. What she couldn't possibly know was that Anita and Mollie had already split one of the cookies looking for flaws in her cooking and had given her a thorough examination before Mollie had come out. From totally differing viewpoints. Mollie was thrilled and expected the best of the young woman. Michael dated enough that it wasn't an unusual occurrence. But he'd never once brought a casual date to the weekly gathering without them first becoming familiar with her in other settings. And he'd mentioned a Moyer. One that he had doubts about as a homicide detective. Mollie was interested in the young woman's take on the situation, just for comparison.

What she discovered was a charming, conversant young woman who only rarely had to search for a translation to make her point clear. Twice during the meal she paused mid-sentence and had to switch to English. Both times Michael had supplied the necessary word or phrase for her-once turning from the conversation he'd been engaged in on the other side of the table, showing his mother that he was attentive to his date even when allowing her to get used to them on her own. An independent woman, likeable and conscientious. A good guest, standing immediately to help with the clearing of plates and dishes, offering to wash with a self-depreciating laugh and a light "I'll probably be in the way if I try to put things to away."

And when Huana Juarez pulled open the cabinet housing his records and slow music began to seep through the large space, Mollie watched her son refill their wineglasses, obviously a tactic to allow this young lady the opportunity to watch at first. She noticed the easy way his arm came to rest on the back of her chair when the ladies rejoined the group and Miss Moyer sat down.

"Dance with me, old man," Mollie told her husband.

On the dance floor she watched the couple over her husband's shoulder.

"Let it be," the senior Michael Sanchez growled in her ear.

"I want him happy," she objected.

"So let it be. He's a big boy and she's not his first girlfriend."

"He's only known her a couple of weeks."

"I know it. And he didn't think he liked her at first. But you still have to let it be."

"Nanita doesn't like her."

"But you do. And Nanita will come around. Antonio saw them dancing the other night. He said that she's been here before, without Michael. And he said that he'd never seen Michael dance like that with anyone. They left at the same time, but Janos told Huana that they didn't leave together. Michael put her in a cab and then drove himself home."

"He is a good boy."

"He is."

Mollie felt her eyes fill. "Am I a silly old woman? I like her. I like her very much. And it's not just because I want my children married and settled and making grandchildren. I really like her."

"So do I. Now be quiet about her and let him make up his own mind."

"It says something that he'd bring her here."

"It does."


	5. 5 SULTRY SUNDAYS

**Chapter 5:**

**Sultry Sundays**

Across the room Sanchez was speaking softly in Moyer's ear. Sometimes it was to point out the difference between the parlor versions of the dances and the formal versions. Sometimes it was explaining who the people were and how they were connected.

"Has it been too terrible?" he asked as he refilled his wineglass. Again.

Moyer shook her head. She turned, grinning into his eyes. "What? With the twenty questions and the people looking at me as if I had three heads and your father's announcing to all and sundry that I speak Spanish?"

Sanchez ducked his head, dropping it to the arm draped around her shoulder. Moyer told herself she didn't catch the scent of his shampoo.

"We have a tendency to keep a running commentary when we don't think people will understand us," he admitted.

She arched a brow. "I've been there," she reminded him.

"And I apologized. It's a rude thing to do, even if you don't know what we're saying. And it was way off target."

She nodded curtly. "Just so long as you're a big enough man to admit that you're wrong."

He smirked. "I'm plenty big enough."

She rolled her eyes and watched his aunt's sister rock a small child to sleep at the end of the table. There were some younger girls-maybe six of them ranging in ages from seven to ten or eleven-in one corner dancing the complicated figure eights while holding each other's hands. Boys raced toy cars along the edge of the stage, subdued and quiet even while they burned off the excess energy from sitting through church and the meal without misbehaving. They'd lost the little jackets, the little ties. Moyer cut her eyes at Sanchez. At work he wore white button downs, suits, and ties. At most he lost his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Here he wore a beautifully cut shirt in the deepest royal blue she'd ever seen, the collar open, the look striking and relaxed.

Sanchez caught her looking at him and smiled. "What?" he asked.

She shook her head and turned away. Abruptly she turned back to him. Their eyes met and Sanchez felt a spark that went clear to his gut. Not his loins, although there, too. But to depths he didn't realize he had as well. He was surprised the walls didn't shake with it, that there was no accompanying clap of thunder.

"Dance with me," he said softly, easing back from her so that he could stand and pull out her chair. She slipped toward him like they'd been doing it their entire lives, let her hand rest in his as he walked her to the dance floor and led her through the first steps with the sun shining on the hardwood floor. She settled instantly against him, surrounded by him and surrounding him.

And his mother, watching, sighed as her son sighed. She knew by his father's sharp intake of breath when the older man had seen his son's face - - the totally peacefully closed eyes, the tightly clenched jaw.

"Dear Lord," he breathed in English. It was the look of a man who deeply desired the woman in his arms. Who knew when he'd found the one who belonged there.

Sanchez opened his eyes and tilted his head to look down at Moyer. He knew they'd been silent too long. Was afraid to see discomfort on her face. She only looked up at him and lifted one corner of her mouth, one eyebrow. He shrugged and let the rest of the tension drain away. And for a long time, while the music was deep and low and slow, he simply led her through the dance, simply absorbed her.

"They make a beautiful couple," one of his relatives said. They did make a beautiful couple, him tall and broad-shouldered and deeply tanned, the poster-child for public relations with his clean-shaven intensity. He dwarfed her, a tall, well-built woman. Her short-sleeved turtleneck topped her slim skirt and retro-fifties-style shoes perfectly. The pale blue offset his own shirt as though chosen to do so. Her dark brown hair, pulled up off the long, graceful neck, emphasized how fine was her pale olive skin.

"Beautiful babies, eh?" an older neighbor cracked.

Antonio Sanchez winked at his brother as he caught his eye. Beautiful babies. And all the luck with making them, he silently wished his brother. Getting up he squatted between the older women. "And well-deserved, that some hot chica would make all his dreams come true. Now which of you wants to be whisked away by this fine specimen of manhood?"

"I have to go," Moyer groaned, looking at the clock. She sat up, reaching for his shirt again, wrapping it around her as she bent to find undergarments left abandoned on the floor.

She laughed when she felt his strong arm around her waist, his lips against her hair.

"In good conscience I cannot allow you to leave yet," he told her. His English was heavily accented. Whether it was with sleep or the afternoon spent speaking his first language or an aftereffect of the lovemaking she wasn't sure. It charmed her, though, even as she argued with him.

"It's late," she told him. "We have to go to work-"

His eyes smiled in the dark as he put his fingertips gently to her lips and shook his head. "You're not wandering around the city in the middle of the night," he told her.

"It's closer to morning," she countered, pulling at his arm.

He took the opportunity to tuck her back down across the bed, looming over her. "Exactly. You think I'm going to let you just waltz out of here at-" he looked up, then shook his head in disbelief, "-three o'clock in the morning? It's not safe, not smart. Your car will be fine at the church. You can pick it up in the morning."

"I'm going to need to go home and shower anyway," she told him.

He bent to kiss her, spoke against her lips as he brought his body down to cover hers. She was wearing just his shirt again. It had a powerful effect on him. "You'll feel better for catching a few hours of sleep first. I'll feel better if I can put you in your car myself, know that you're okay, that it'll be daylight outside when you let yourself into your apartment." She shivered as his lips nuzzled hers, then slipped down to taste the hollow beneath her ear. "Do it for me..."

"Well..."

"Unless you want to call in tomorrow. We can catch a plane out of LAX, have drinks in our hands by sunset..."

She laughed and let him make love to her again. The man knew what he was doing. Better enjoy the insanity before the real world intruded and their real lives took over again. Then she fell asleep with her cheek on his skin, her head tucked under his chin, his arms warm and firm around her, their legs tangled beneath the sheets.


	6. YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF ME

**Chapter 6:**

**You've Never Heard Me**

"Who are you again?" the gruff older cop asked.

She rolled her eyes on the inside. "Maura McBrayer," she said again.

He pursed his lips and looked at his partner. The other man shrugged. "I've never heard of you," he told her.

Maura rolled her eyes. "Well, now I'm crushed. Since you haven't heard of me then I've surely never written anything worthwhile. I should just hang up my press credentials and go home."

Sanchez sat on the corner of his desk. "You're a writer?" he accused.

She nodded. "Sun," she said by way of explanation.

"We're sick of writers right now," Flynn told her.

"I know. I read the piece. I hate Ramos. I'd like to take a stab at the real story and maybe take him down a notch or two."

"So you're not writing real pieces now?" Gregory asked. "What do you do?"

"Public interest," Maura told him.

Daniels leaned forward. "Fill-ins? Traffic? Weather?"

"Lifestyle sections?" Sgt. Gregory suggested.

"_What the Hell?_" Maura corrected.

Tao smiled. "Yeah, right."

She met his smile with a smirk of her own. "Ready to talk now?"

Tao nodded. "I've read it. It's good. I don't always agree, but it's good."

She rocked her head back and forth. "Sometimes it's over the top. But it's meant to get people thinking for themselves, not accepting half truths because they're the status quo. I think it amuses as often as it offends and I think it only offends those with a guilty conscience. So I sleep well at night."

"And you want to do us next?"

She shook her head. "I want to do shabby reporting practices in the next _What the Hell?,_ not you guys. You I want to do for the cover."

Brenda snorted. "You aim high."

Maura nodded. "I do."

Surprisingly, Provenza wasn't the most resistant to the reporter's efforts. That crown went to the newest member of their team.

"Why does she bother you so?" Sanchez asked her quietly one afternoon when they slipped away to enjoy a quiet lunch together. Things were slow. Or maybe not slow, but there was none of the frenzied urgency that television portrays on law dramas. It was the more routine, the mundane, that occupied them that day.

Tanner shrugged. "I don't know, Michael. I have a hard time opening up sometimes."

He let out a long breath and turned, stretching his arms out across the back of the bench to enjoy the sunshine.

"I think large families can be very, very similar," he began. "And yet, they can be very, very different, too."

Tanner dropped her sandwich wrapper into the bag between their feet, then finished her bottled water. This, too, she crushed to be disposed of when they rose. She still didn't respond to what she thought was his obvious change of the subject. He found her unresisting when his hand came down on her shoulder. With pleasure she let him guide her closer and snuggled in to lean against his chest with his warm, steady arm around her back to keep her safe.

"In our family," he continued, "there is always someone there - - always someone to be your best friend or your confidant, always someone to take up for you. Of course, there's always someone to team up against you as well," he laughed.

"I get that," she told him. "There were more of us than there were of you guys."

Sanchez watched the shades of red and gold and mahogany that the sun picked out in her hair blow in the slight breeze.

"I think, though, that somehow girls are different. I think, even with all your parents money, with all the attention that your mother gave you girls in staying home rather than working, that you grew up lacking-"

"We didn't lack for any affection, sweet pea," Tanner smiled. She gently shook her head. It was like lunch with Sally-Jesse Raphael.

"I think that you each lacked privacy. As a group and individually. Always there is someone watching you, judging you. The older girls had to watch out for - - had to be mother to - - the younger girls. The younger girls had to guard their indiscretions against not only your mother but you older ones, too. What your parents didn't catch the protocol officers would have had to have brought to their attention. In some places so large a family as yours becomes a spectacle in itself. Especially one with a prominent father and only girls. Hmm?"

"Hmmm," she echoed flatly.

"Who did you tell your secrets to?"

"I have no secrets to tell, Michael. I am an open book."

Sanchez let his head fall back as he laughed.

Tanner reconsidered. "Okay. I got good at keeping to myself."

He nodded and then bent to press a quick kiss to the crown of her head. "So good, in fact, that it became very difficult for you to open up and talk about yourself?" he suggested. "So private, in fact, so routine did your self-containment become, that you do it still? Or is it that there were so many voices, and yours became hard to hear? So you gave up and stopped screaming?"

She shrugged. "You always hear me. Always heard me."

"I love you, Tanner, with all my heart," he whispered.

"I love you, too," she whispered back, her arms tightening around his middle. "You make it easier for me to be me."

He smiled, although it was a bittersweet emotion in his heart.

She made it easy to love her. Keeping her safe from her own harsh self-judgment was another challenge.


	7. 7 I JUST CAN'T IMAGINE

**Chapter 7:**

**I Just Can't Imagine**

"Moyer and Sanchez?" Fritz asked again.

Brenda shut the fridge and leveled a look at him. "Yes. Moyer. And. Sanchez."

"Are you sure?"

She didn't even turn to face him this time. She continued to riffle through the cabinets. "I am sure," she told him.

Fritz shook his head. "I just can't see..." She didn't let him finish his thought before she threw up her hand.

"I assure you, yes, Moyer and Sanchez. Together."

"Of all people-I just cannot imagine them together..." his voice trailed off as she came to stand just under his chin.

"I don't have to imagine them together. My team has no illusions left. There are no secrets. Half of the damned police force in this city will have-from now on-no problems imagining them together. Now, can we drop this please? I really and truly do not want to continue this conversation."

"Okay, sure, Brenda." He shook his head as he poured wine for both of them. "I just have to figure out how to look at them without letting them know I know when I see them again."

Brenda put her head on the table top and screamed.

Her team had been conducting surveillance on a suspected murderess's hotel room. Not all of the team, however. They'd played it in six hour shifts. Plus several people had asked off for the weekend. It was a holiday after all. And people who worked sixty hours a week for crappy pay deserved a break.

Well, apparently two of her detectives thought so, too.

The grieving widow had taken a room in the new luxury hotel that had opened the month before. So LAPD took over the room across the hall as well as a room in the hotel across the street.

And two of LAPD's finest had also booked a suite for the weekend, intending to take advantage of the five-star dining establishment and the super-jet whirlpool and full-sized balcony that had been advertised.

And they proceeded to do so, not realizing just how damning the evidence would be. That evidence being collected by their teammates in the room next door who were unable to drown out the sounds of their...um...enjoyment of the accommodations.

It wasn't tee-totally over-the-top embarrassing (because listening to a couple's intimate relations wasn't bad enough) until they'd run into the couple in the hallway. Brenda, Provenza, and Gregory returning from a meal. Sanchez and Moyer deciding whether they could stay apart long enough to make it through a sit-down meal. Wrapped around each other against their hotel door. Apparently they'd opted not to go out, because Sanchez had reached around Moyer to unlock the door and the couple had disappeared again without ever realizing anyone else was in the hall.

"Tell me I didn't just see that," Brenda ordered the men flanking her.

Provenza actually walked forward and leaned toward the door, listening.

"I don't think they're going to make their reservation," he announced.

Gregory rubbed his eyes. "I think I maybe was just struck blind. My retinas have been damaged. Do I look different to you? Because I feel different. I feel..."

"Dirty?" Provenza asked.

"Dirty works," the other man agreed. The light bulb dawned. "Oh, man! This means we've been listening to _them_ for the past thirty-eight hours! Oh my God!"

"Oh, please don't go there," Brenda begged, shaking her head. She closed her eyes and willed the bad dream away.

When she opened them both men were still standing there.

"I guess that's why neither one answered their cells phones," Provenza suggested. "You want that I should give it a knock and let 'em know they can take a shift when they have some free time?"

Gregory cleared his throat. "I think maybe we want to work it so that they're not on the same shift."

Brenda glared at him again.

"Seriously, how do you want us to handle this, boss?" Gregory asked her.

"I do not want to handle this at all. We are here doing a job. Neither Moyer nor Sanchez is on duty, they have no reason to be on duty, and every officer on the force is entitled to his or her R&R. They are not here, we are not here. Do you understand me gentlemen?"

Provenza tried to stop smiling. "Got it, boss."

"Got it," Gregory echoed.


	8. 8 DIFFICULT CASES

**Chapter 8:**

**I Hurt for You**

"You wanna talk to me?" she asked as he slammed another door. He'd been restless all night.

"We're sitting here-" he began. He almost visibly brought himself under tighter control. Just as he seemed about to speak again he shook his head. "No. I'm fine."

She followed him when he turned to leave the room.

"Michael! Mike!" He ignored her, stripping off his tie and dumping it and his suit coat onto the bathroom floor. He didn't slam that door in her face at least. He continued to jerk at his clothes with such force and ferocity that she was surprised buttons didn't pop off his shirt. His belt made a slapping sound as it hit the tile siding. When he stepped out of his shoes they seemed to take the brunt of his anger, crashing against the linen closet and reverberating. The violence in him seemed to shock her into silence for a long moment. He was pulling his undershirt over his head when he heard her soft pleading.

_"Miguel_..."

Michael's face was hard when he turned to her.

"Please, please _talk to me_."

He shook his head. "Don't call me that. Not because you want something from me. Don't use who I am that way," he ordered harshly. He turned his back on her to start the water, then adjusted the shower head to his liking. It seemed as if he knew he was wrong in the accusation because he turned to her and cupped her face in his hands. They were like mirror images of angst and hurt and frustration. He pressed his lips hard against hers and breathed in her scent...even as he backed her out of the room.

"I-I didn't mean it like that," she told him. "I want to understand. I need to be able to help you and I just can't get a grip on it...I can't wrap my mind around why this case is different. Why it's so much more difficult."

"I'm tired of victims, that's all," he told her.

"Hispanic victims?" There was an edge to her voice that he couldn't step away from. He never noticed that he switched to Spanish.

"You see that? You think you know me that well? I'm tired of victims who look like _me_. I'm tired of the people around me assuming that none of us has a right to be here. I'm tired of the faces that look like mine being the ones who are afraid and accused and-"

She frowned at him and shook her head. "That's not true, Michael. You know it's not true. We've worked cases where you were the first to jump on a Latino as the doer. And we've worked cases where every single person in the unit ignored possible undocumented immigrants to focus on a non-minority suspect."

He threw up his hands and turned away from her. "You don't see it. You're one of _them_."

It was the wrong thing to say. Her palms slapped hard and loud against his back. She fisted her right hand and would have landed the punch on his shoulder if he hadn't turned around to catch her wrists. He couldn't hold her and stop her mouth at the same time, though. And he couldn't restrain her and wipe away her tears. So he let her shed them as he watched.

"You son of a bitch! Is that what you see? A _me_ and a _you_ and we're so different?!" She didn't notice the switch, either. She cursed him fluently in three different languages. And when she berated him she spoke in his native tongue. "The Mexican immigrants aren't the only ones getting the short stick, Miguel. The Orientals are shipped over in boxes on container ships. The Slavics get flown over as mail-order sex slaves. And children of every color get picked up, beaten down, and left for dead. Or worse. They come to expect abuse. Get a grip! Your people aren't being ignored by the police! And they're not the victims of the system! If you want your neighborhood to stop getting raided by the INS you need to get the goddamned Mexican flag off of the porches! They _chose_ to come here. They were _free_ to do so. And yet they mock the very country they left their fucked up world for. Why do you think people get angry? You perpetuate the problem! You build isolationist camps in the middle of cities and you don't let anyone in! Huana's is the only non-gringo-bashing bar in this block. And I _still_ get looks. _You_ get looked down upon because you're with me. Instead of your own kind! Fine, then! Go back! Take the frigging state and leave the rest of it behind! Go!"

Michael's heart broke as her words became incoherent and gave way to sobs. He held her wrists until he was sure she wasn't going to hit him again. Then he wrapped his arms around her and just held her. Her tears soaked his bare shoulder and the trembling made his stomach knot tighter than it had before.

When she'd settled a bit - - if the softer crying could be considered settling - - he explained what he'd meant. His voice was low, his English heavily accented. "I don't see victims who were born speaking Spanish, Tanner. I see women who were used. It's not the race; it's the rape. The innocence in trying to make children's lives better only to be singled out because of a demographic." She heard the gasp in his breath that told her he was trying not to break down. "I see you. Strong and silent. Living with it - - dealing with it. I got hold of your service record from vice. I see these young women and I see what our kind asked you to be - - just because you spoke the language. I've seen the transcripts and I've seen enough to read between the lines. I know what you did. What your teammates let happen to you. _Your partner_," he spat. "And it makes me sick that I can't stop it. That I can't make it go away." His hands crushed her shoulders, squeezing as though he might be strong enough to make the situation turn back. "I will never let anyone hurt you. But who stands for the rest of them? Who keeps the monsters away when the monsters wear the same uniform we do, pray to the same God, pledge to the same country? What makes us different? Where is the sense in it?"

Tanner let his arms support her as she realized what he was saying. She wondered which reports he'd gotten access to - - which of the ugly things in her past he'd read about. Vice was not a pretty place. She'd been chosen to join the team because of a specific set of skills - - the ability to be a fresh, female face and form.

"I didn't want you to know," she said quietly. "I didn't mean for you to find out that way. Why didn't you just ask?"

Michael shrugged. "Because you've only ever told funny stories. And they're too short. You left because your Nonna needed you, but you left because you wanted to." He lifted her chin in his fingertips. They both bore the signs of tears and temper. "Something was up from the first day you came. It wasn't fitting in that was hard, it was trusting us. And it went deeper than being saddled with a hostile new group of people." His voice dropped to a whisper as the room filled with steam around them. "I thought when we got closer that you'd tell me the things that keep you up some nights. The things that haunt you. But you didn't. And when I ask you only laugh and tell me that homicide is a lot cleaner. That you can tell who the good guys are in this division. And I wanted to know, so I asked around and got some stuff. Which is what you've been doing these last couple of days."

Tanner nodded. "Your behavior is becoming more and more erratic. You can't keep up like this and not end up going off on a civilian or worse. You're acting crazy and people who I thought would know why are looking to me for answers."

"I carry a taser, Tan," he said. "I've used it. Had it used on me. You can't imagine how bad it hurts. And for those women to be working for children while some predator hunts them down? It's too sick. I can't deal with it. I look at those pictures and I see you. I see you...bruised and violated and-"

He lowered his brow to hers and cried over an innocence she'd stopped grieving for being lost.

"You're so sweet with me," he whispered. "So giving and joyful and sane. How could someone hurt you? Those girls are always smiling and laughing in their pictures. Except their immigration pictures - - where they look scared to death. It should be the happiest day of their lives. The day they become Americans. What makes them sad? What frightens them?"

Moyer shook her head. "I don't have any explanations for you," she said. "But I'm watching you tiptoe closer and closer to the edge and I'm afraid you're going to lose it. Irrevocably. _Soon_."

Sanchez shook his head. "I'm not there yet. I'll transfer out before I get there. I promise."

"To what?" she asked.

He shrugged. "White collar crimes. Internal affairs. I don't know. Maybe back to a beat. We'll see, okay?"

She nodded - - it was the only thing she could do.

Michael pressed his lips to her brow and stoked his thumbs over her cheekbones. "I need a shower. I need to wash away as much of this case as I can. Do you want to join me?"

He wasn't surprised when Tanner shook her head. "I'll make you a drink," she said. "Open some wine or something. Give it just a few minutes to settle in."

"Are you angry with me?" he asked.

Tanner shook her head again. "No," she answered simply. He heard the truth in the simple word. She wasn't washing her hands of the discussion-she really and truly felt no anger or resentment that he would dig into her past. He felt that weight at least slide from his shoulders as she reached up to squeeze his wrists and then stepped out of the room to allow him the privacy in which to exorcise his demons.


	9. 9 DEMONS

**Chapter 9:**

**Demons**

The demons were back full force the next night. By two o'clock the next morning Moyer had finished up all the paperwork and puttering she could and was waiting impatiently for Sanchez in the division ready room.

"He's at the hospital," Provenza finally told her when he realized why she was stalking back and forth.

"What?! Why?"

Flynn held up his hands in surrender. "The softie told him to stay with the boy. Sanchez said that the boy's story is as harsh as the rest of it. Apparently the mother - - or the woman he knows as his mother - - travelled with them to Mexico several years ago and they came back without her."

Moyer contemplated the possibilities. They were nearly endless. And nearly all horrific.

"Name? Family name? Birth certificate? INS? Has he heard from her since? Grandparents? What?"

Provenza came around his desk to perch on the work table. "All we know is what he told Sanchez. The mother went to Tijuana with them and they came home without her."

"_Damn Fritz_," she muttered.

The others in the room shook their heads. They understood the frustration. A van-full of women who didn't know anything and a child with only half answers. The only one with the full story was laid out in the morgue awaiting ballistics reports from an FBI rifle.

"It was a hell of a shot," Provenza said in an effort to lighten the mood. Moyer nodded absently. She was tired. More, she was mentally exhausted. She'd take another round at the women over the next couple of days, but she didn't expect much. She and Brenda together might be compassionate and sincere, but they were terrified. She wondered if bringing Michael in on the interrogations would help. She fully intended to get scene shots to show them that the monster was dead. It would have helped _her_. _Unless there was more than one person in on it from that side,_ she thought. Damn.

"Michael's been interviewing that child this whole time?" she asked suddenly.

Provenza shook his head. "It bothered him that the boy would go into the system. He figures he'll get lost there and that any inquiry into next of kin will be put on the back burner since he's of questionable status."

"If they ever start one. The kid'll be old enough to go out on his own before Children's Services spends that kind of money," she interrupted.

"Yeah, well." Both men sighed . "It seemed like it would do them both good for him to stick around for a while, so that's the assignment I gave him."

Moyer leaned forward and pecked his cheek. "You are a softie. Thank you."

They watched as she gathered her bag and windbreaker and locked her gun and badge in her desk drawer. She didn't like to take them anywhere she'd be tempted to misuse them and she _never_ left them in her car. A friend had had his stolen once inside his brand new Mustang and it had made quite the impression on her.

"See you tomorrow," Lt. Gregory said softly as she slipped past.

"Bright and early," she assured him.

At the hospital she wandered the halls a bit, waiting near the nurses' station for the officials from immigration and children's services.

It would break her heart to watch Michael attach himself to the young boy they'd rescued. Break both their hearts when he was taken away.

The night his mother arrived Michael invited her to stay at their home with them. After bidding her good night and bedding them down in guest room and on the pull-out sofa, he curled around his wife in the darkness of their own room.

"Help me understand this," he begged. "Help me make sense of it."

Tanner turned, tears wetting her own cheeks as she cradled his face in her hands.

"I wanted him to stay with us," the man she loved confessed. "I wanted him for our own."

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

She had known. Right or wrong, she'd watched him grow more and more attached. _No_. That wasn't true. He'd been instantly attached to the boy. And charmingly so.

But what was in her that hadn't taken the steps to safe-guard him against just this? Why hadn't she warned him, counselled him against too close a kinship?

Because she wanted him to be happy, she told herself. _Who knew investigation would come through like that?_ The boy's mother had certainly been wronged. God knew that. She couldn't imagine the heartache of being powerless to enforce a reunion with her own child. _Because we would have stopped at nothing to get him back. No law, no border, _nothing_ would have kept either of us from getting back here and finding him, if we'd had to dig a tunnel beneath the river and knock on every door in California._

_ I can't dwell on that,_ she ordered herself. _I have to put that demon to bed._

Instead she petted the man she held. "I know," she whispered. "I know."


End file.
